Some Nights
by adoorbellrings
Summary: He wants to catch her. She wants to break him. And when night falls, who's to say they can't both win?
1. The First Time Doesn't Count

_I don't know if I can really articulate how much I want to wipe that sneer off his pretty face. And that's what this is all about, of course. Not the money, not the glitter, not the press; I don't really care about any of that anymore. It's lost its shine, the thrill, the unnamed something that made me keep going out, night after night, putting my body through hell and getting by on two, three hours of sleep per cycle… Now I put on the leather and the claws for something else entirely._

_I guess it's not surprising. The papers have been calling it for months. Maybe it's because our names go so well together – this town has always had a thing for rhymes – or maybe it's because of the whole hero/villain complex. I don't know. But what I do know is that now, like it or not, my mild interest in the Batman has grown into something more like an obsession. That doesn't mean I have any _feelings_ for him, of course; how could I? All I know about the man is that he's tall, and scary fast, and stern as hell. That he's never hurt me, not really, no more than I've hurt him. That he's had chances to take me out for good, or at least to get me locked away for a long, long time… and he hasn't taken them. Or maybe I'm just better, faster, just enough to win those few seconds that make all the difference. It's hard to say, since the part of his face that isn't covered never moves more than what's necessary for understandable speech, and his eyes…_

_Let's not go into that. I pride myself on being able to read people, especially people who don't want to be read, and he's always been something of a sore spot there._

_I guess it's not really a sneer, what he does. In fact, that's kind of the problem. If he sneered at me, like Two-Face does, I could handle it. If he leered at me, his eyes snaking around my legs like the Penguin's do, I could work with that. But he's too good for plebian emotions like lust or superiority or rage. The most I've been able to get out of him is a little quirk of irritation, just a twitching of one of the muscles in his jaw that brings his mouth up into a slant, lips thinning, those blue eyes slate-dark and shuttered…_

_Right. Enough of that. Back on track. I'm not some sighing schoolgirl, and he's not the captain of the football team. He's Batman, the shadow, the mystery. And me?_

_I'm Catwoman. I'm everything he hates._

_Time to have some fun._

* * *

When he caught up with me, it was on the biggest bridge in Gotham. I was climbing as fast as I could, thanking Bast for the parkour training my college boyfriend had insisted upon. Lips parted, eyes intent on my target, I sprang from the thin bar of scaffolding to one across the chasm that was gradually increasing as I ascended. I caught it, the metal biting through my gloves. I let out a small cry of pain that was swallowed by the wind as I swung up and used my momentum to fling myself down two rungs. I heard the crash of feet hitting the steel plates at the base of the bridge, and froze. It was dark; the bridge was lit, but not well. He might not see me. If I just – stayed – still –

There was a snap of cape in the wind and the scaffolding trembled beneath me. He was climbing, moving fast, his body flying from rung to rung. _Shit._

"Careful," I called, deciding it was time to stop pretending he wasn't coming for me like a ninja with the force of a freight train. "Breezy up here."

"Good thing you have nine lives," he retorted, somehow managing to sound cool. He was at the top of the scaffolding now, pausing briefly before beginning his descent on my side.

"Oh," I said, pouting a little, putting a heavy dose of sarcasm into my voice, "now, _that_ was a bit trite."

"Damn," he said flatly, and I figured I should maybe start climbing down myself.

"Gotta think on your toes!" I illustrated this by jumping the last twelve feet or so, landing in a low crouch. "We have a witty repartee to maintain, after all!"

"The only thing you're going to have to maintain is your cell," and he was on the ground too, and why wasn't I running? Distracted by that zinger of a comeback, perhaps. _Don't joke, Selina_, I told myself, trying to force my legs to move. It wasn't working. He was a few feet away, the end of his cape whipping around his knees, and I realized that he wasn't wearing the standard uniform. The cape was there, obviously, and the opaque bulletproof armor with the wicked little bat insignia on the chest. But the heavy black cargo pants weren't his usual fair, and with them tucked into oh-so-sturdy combat boots, he looked like some sort of amalgam of a superhero and G.I. Joe.

"Nice pants," I said, giving him my trademark smirk. "What are you advertising, Black-Ops?"

"Ha." He didn't sound amused. "Give it back."

"What, no 'please'?"

"Please."

I flinched back, throwing up a hand.

"So dry!" Stepping closer, I reached out and drew a finger along one pointed wing of the insignia on his chest. And there it was again. The want, the _need_. It's more than a desire, more than a lust; I am _compelled _to break his calm. I want to see him without that iron control. I want to see him beg.

He stepped back, out of reach. I laughed.

"Careful, Tex. I'd hate to see you get a splinter from that stick up your ass."

"Elegant as ever," he said, the barest hint of a drawl to it. Not for the first time, I wondered just who was behind that mask. I like to think I wonder less than the rest of the known world, but there are times… He tilted his head, staring me down. "Now, are you going to make this harder, or are you going to give back the necklace?"

"Well, I'm not giving it back. So I guess I'm making things… harder." Tongue in cheek, I smiled at him.

Ok.

So it was a bit below me.

But I swear to Bast, there was a flicker. It was difficult to see, being dark, but his eyelids twitched. He almost blinked. And if he'd blinked, I would have won.

Obviously, it was time to try harder.

"You could just call the cops, you know," I purred, taking another step to eat the distance he'd created. Two more and his back would be against the bridge railing. He didn't step back again, but I was reasonably sure I could convince him.

"I'd rather not complicate matters," he said, and every single word added, _because I don't need cops to do my job._

"Right." I lifted a finger, slowly, dragged it along the other edge of the insignia. It was sharp, tough, and might have cut me had it not been for the gloves. "What if I like things complicated?" And although I couldn't quite bring myself to say it as throatily as my film noir icons would have, I think I managed to hit at least two levels of sultry.

This time, he didn't just step back. Instead, his own hand flashed up and grabbed my wrist, yanking my fingers away from his chest. He didn't throw me down or kick my feet out from under me. He just held my hand away, fingers tight around my wrist, blue eyes glinting in the dark.

"Let me go," I said, and for the first time felt a quiver of some distant relative of fear. He wouldn't hurt me. He never hurt me. And if he tried… Well. Parkour wasn't the only thing I'd trained in. He didn't answer, and I tried jerking my arm down. The movement made my free arm swing up automatically, and he just caught that one too. Trapped, somewhat stupidly, I frowned at him. "You're not being very sporting tonight, Bats."

"Don't call me that."

It was the first thing he'd said in what felt like minutes, and I was actually a little surprised.

"What, Bats?"

His grip on me loosened. I took it as embarrassment, and grinned at him. When I lowered my arms, he let me, fingers slipping from my wrists.

"What would you prefer I called you?" I asked, as irreverently as possible. When he didn't answer, I swayed a little closer. Just a crack. All I needed was a crack, and then I'd know how to keep picking at it, clawing my way through, through those damned stony defenses of his… "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." I was lying, of course, but he knew that. It was the game. It was all the game.

As if he were reading my mind, the way I sometimes suspected he could, he said,

"I'm not playing."

"What?" _Innocent, Selina. You're totally innocent._

"Your little games. I just want the necklace."

And it hurt. A little. More than I expected it to, actually.

"Fine," I snapped, and then cursed myself for allowing the weakness. Regaining my cool, I stepped back from him. "But I'm still not giving it up. Not without a price."

"I'm not buying back what you stole, little thief."

"I didn't say anything about money." There was still time. This could still be salvaged. I wasn't done with him yet.

"I could just take it from you."

"And yet," I said, allowing my eyelids to shutter, "here we are, talking about it."

"You could just run." God_damn_, he was gruff.

"I think I prefer chasing." And _now_, move forward _now_, and yes!

He stepped back, almost unconsciously, and I refused to give back the ground I'd gained. Both hands going to his shoulders, I leaned in and let my left leg drag back, arching my torso into him, my face turning up.

"Mmm, yes," I purred, hissing the end. "This _is_ more like it."

"What do you want?" he asked, and was that a hint of amusement in the dark voice? The instant it took me to decide that yes, it _was_ humor, was long enough for him to shake his head. "For the necklace," he clarified, and I fought to keep myself from blushing. _Right. Score one for the Bat._

"What do I want? What _do_ I want?" I shook my head, an evil idea rising from the bite of embarrassment. "A kiss."

"What?" He sounded genuinely taken aback, or at least as taken aback as it was possible for him to sound.

"You heard me." I tilted my head, sliding my hands over his shoulders, crossing my wrists behind his neck. "What with the papers screaming it at me all day long... A girl starts to wonder."

"I'm not kissing you."

"Then hit me," I countered, studying the mask, the eyes behind it. Searching for the flicker, the sign, any hint that his façade was anything but solid. It didn't come… but he didn't hit me, either. He didn't move at all. I felt a great sense of tension, radiating out from his shoulders, his jaw; it was the sort of thing where you imagined that, if you were to move even slightly, something might explode.

I leaned my head closer to his, aware of his warmth, his tallness, the eyes like shattered night skies.

"Just one kiss," I whispered, and suddenly it was all catching up with me, the rush, slamming into me like hard wind. I wanted to draw back, to retreat, to _run_ – but then there was a pressure on my hips, my lower back. Hands. His hands. I gasped a little, I think, something to agonize over later.

Slowly, as if each fraction of an inch that he moved were something profoundly not allowed, the dark knight lowered his head towards mine. I felt his lips brush against mine, a touch so light it made my mouth tingle. Like being kissed by a ghost. Then, he drew away, blue eyes still open, still watching me, and I admit it. I got a little angry.

"No," I said, and maybe in the morning I would care about how breathless I sounded. "Not good enough." I caught him by the back of the neck and dragged his head back down, and for once he didn't resist.

This time, the kiss was hard. He wasted no time, lifting me just high enough to spin us around and push me back up against the rail. I hadn't expected his hands to slide up my back with just the right amount of pressure to make me shiver. Hadn't expected his tongue to be clever enough to get me gasping into his mouth in seconds. Hadn't expected to feel it to my very bones when I opened my eyes and saw that his were closed, finally, not watching me, searching me, dissecting me. He was here, right now, the man behind the Batman, with _me_.

After a minute, two minutes, some number of minutes during which I found the contours of his back beneath the straps of the armor he wore, we pulled away. I was breathing hard, and gratified to see that I wasn't the only one.

"Was that good enough?" he asked, voice a little rougher than usual.

"Enough for this," I replied, and reached into the hidden pocket at my thigh. Tossing him the ring I'd stolen from the collection upstairs – not nearly so well-known as the necklace, and so not nearly so quickly recognized as missing – I backed away.

"The necklace," he said, catching the ring deftly and slipping it into one of the many not-so-hidden pockets of the cargo pants.

"You'll have to earn it, bat boy."

And as I turned to run again, I caught a flash of teeth. My own lips tugged up in an answering grin that I'm pretty sure had a fair dose of stupid in it.

Then, not daring to look back, I took off down the end of the bridge. He'd chase me.

I was sure of it.


	2. And The Second Time's A Fluke

_If I said I don't think about her, I'd be lying. I think about all my enemies, all the various pests of Gotham, and in a lot of ways, she's the worst. She gets under my skin like no other. Damned if I'll ever admit it, but it's true. Maybe it's because she takes such delight in it; unlike the others, she doesn't seem to hold any malice towards me. She just likes taunting, teasing, being just out of reach – _

_Or, at least, she _did_. Until that one night._

_I like to think I'm a fairly accomplished kisser. This is because I'm fairly accomplished at pretty much everything I do, and I've done a lot of kissing in my time._

_But when she asked for a kiss, the first thing I felt was… _nervousness_. As if kissing her would be any different than kissing any of the countless girls I wine and dine to keep up my cover. I haven't felt nervous about a kiss since I was fourteen._

_But she _was_ different._

_She didn't know me as Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, shallow as a model and good with his… hands. She didn't expect the kind of kisses I doled out like dollars, cheap and mindless, without meaning. I didn't know – don't know – what exactly she did expect, but it couldn't have been that. She knew me as Batman, the man who chased her down after her heists and, on some occasions, the man who caught her. She was fully aware of our little game, just as I was, but unlike me, she reveled in it. The smart little comments, the flirtation, the smirk; she was doing her level best to throw me off. But until that night, that's all it had been: a game. She knew her moves, I knew mine. No touching. No realization. No admission._

_And then she whispered_

_(just one kiss)_

_those three little words in my ear, something vulnerable hiding in those big green eyes, and I damned myself. I lapsed. I gave her a way in._

_But she felt so good, tasted so – her mouth was so hot, so soft, and at the same time her teeth nipped at my lower lip and before I knew what I was doing I had her up against the rail. I could have cuffed her then, could have passed it off as tactics, as strategy, but instead I just kissed her until I couldn't breathe. _

_I think we both had the same thought, when we pulled apart._

_Whatever we'd just done had been very, very stupid._

_But when she smiled at me, one side of her mouth quirking up in a lopsided grin, my heart thudded like it hadn't in years. I caught the ring she tossed me and went after her, just like she knew I would. I didn't catch her. I didn't really try. As for the reasons why not… well, I wasn't about to go into those without some prodding._

_Unluckily, I live with one of the keenest, most intrusive men I've ever known._

_

* * *

_

I hadn't been back for more than twenty minutes – the time it took to shower and change – before Alfred deduced that I'd had a run-in with Catwoman. That wasn't altogether impressive; even I knew that I had a different way of glowering after dealing with her than I did after dealing with the others. But I will never know how he picked up on the rest.

"Long night, sir?" he asked, holding a tray with hot chocolate and toast.

"You have no idea." I took the toast, ignored the hot chocolate. Part of me understood that this was because I didn't want to wash away the flavor that still lingered on my mouth, and that thought annoyed me enough to make me toss the toast back onto the tray. Alfred accepted this with a raised brow, perfectly calibrated to show a precise mix of interest and judgment. He set the tray down on one of the tables by the couch where I was sprawled, hands going to clasp behind his back.

"Any rip-roaring tales of adventure you'd care to share?"

The degree of deadpan in that cultured voice could have killed a lesser man.

"Well," I said, crossing my arms behind my head to stretch my back, "I climbed some bridge scaffolding."

"Exciting."

I rolled my eyes. I could always count on Alfred to knock me down a peg or two, on the few occasions where I would have appreciated a little enthusiasm. I was grateful for it, though. I get enough flattery from my pet socialites.

"And," he added, deceptively careless, "did we run into any old friends?"

"We did, we did." I closed my eyes, sighing.

"I take it she's doing well."

My eyes snapped back open. Alfred was watching me, quite blandly, nothing but the twinkle in his eye giving anything away.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." It was worth a try.

"It's been a while since you've seen her, sir. If I may be so bold."

Or maybe it wasn't. I pushed myself up to sit against the arm of the couch, grimacing at him. This was one of those moments where I regretted the fact that I didn't _act_ around Alfred. I suppose everyone needs _someone_ they can trust, but actual friendship is a double-edged sword…

"She's fine," I said, only a little shortly. "Stole a necklace. And a ring."

"Did you retrieve them?"

And there it was.

I don't think I blushed. I can't have blushed. Bruce Wayne does not blush, and Batman sure as hell does not blush.

But he _knew._

"You know, Alfred," I said, trying to regroup as his mouth quirked in a little smile that was all too smug for my liking, "I think I'm going to catch some sleep. You're always telling me I don't get enough, after all, and – "

"I know you don't need me to tell you that it's a foolish idea to get involved with a thief, Master Wayne," Alfred said smoothly. He inclined his head as I sat up to argue. "But it's been a long time since you've shown any interest in something other than this vendetta of yours."

"Look, Alfred," I began, already raising a hand to wave off his mixed messages.

"Will that be all, sir?" he interrupted, perfectly polite, face bland as ever. I sighed. There was just no winning with Alfred.

"Yeah. That'll be all. Forever, please."

"Of course, sir."

_Bullshit_, I thought, getting to my feet.

And, sure enough, I woke four hours later to a glass of juice and a small note informing me that although my mother had been allergic to cats, the condition had fortunately not been passed to me.

* * *

I didn't see her again for a week or so. Which was for the best. I wasn't quite able to say it outright, but I think I was a little afraid of seeing her again. It was why I hadn't chased her with more determination that night, and why tonight, hearing the whoop of alarms at the new tiger god exhibition, I felt a thrill of trepidation. Because seeing her again would make it real, would force me to remember every single scent-taste-feel, as if I hadn't spent the entire goddamn week reliving it in certain unwelcome dreams.

But I had a job to do, and by god, I wasn't going to allow something as trivial as a single midnight kiss to distract me. Much.

I couldn't be sure, but I think she didn't put her all into evading me. Oh, there were some fancy tricks; she's particularly fond of climbing straight up the walls of buildings and suddenly disappearing down ledges. But there were at least two moments where she could have lost me, where I'm almost certain she actually paused before rounding the next bend.

When I finally cornered her, it was on one of the piers. I don't know what made her run there, but I do know that the moon was full that night and she looked beautiful near water.

"So," she called as I drew close enough to hear. "How you been, commando boy?"

Bruce Wayne would have had any number of sly, innuendo-filled lines to toss her way after that little nickname.

"Clever," is all I said. Batman didn't do flirting. Not so overtly, anyway.

"I thought so." Flippant. She was always flippant. Well. Almost

(no, not good enough)

always.

"What'd you take this time? Or do I even have to ask?"

"Why would you?" she asked, making a fair point. "You don't care what I took. You just want it back."

It was true that I didn't exactly make conversation with the Joker. Of course, that was also because conversation with the Joker was likely to make you nearly as crazy as he was, but the point stood.

"You're right," I said, and took a step towards her. I found myself wondering if she'd require another trade, and bit back the thought. "Maybe this time I'll get Gordon's boys down here, take you in for good."

She pouted, full lips turning down, her green, almond-shaped eyes impossibly warm. It should be illegal for a girl to look that good in leather, and _still_ seem like she might be able to make her grandmother's oatmeal cookies.

"I feel so underappreciated," she said. "I thought you enjoyed our little get-togethers." Her pout twitched, eyes lighting with something a lot more wicked than the false hurt.

Upsettingly, I didn't actually have a comeback for that.

"Not as much as you do, apparently."

But I've always been all right at improvisation. And, to my quiet delight, twin spots of color appeared on her cheeks just below the edge of the mask.

"Well," the Cat said, coming back strong with a hint of a purr, "what can I say? A girl can only pass up the opportunity so many times."

"An opportunity for what?" I knew I'd regret the question, but I couldn't stop myself from asking it. She smiled, a ponderous expression that suggested I was making a series of rather large mistakes.

"Don't try to pretend you haven't thought about it."

And this, for future reference, was the moment where the conversation should have been stopped. Forcibly if need be. Instead, I narrowed my eyes.

"About you behind bars? We live in hope." I was never this snarky with the other big bads of Gotham, either.

"Kinky, but wrong." She reached into the seamless pocket on her inner thigh – and, can I just say, wow – and pulled out a small shining oval. My eyes flicked to it, registered that it was hammered gold with some kind of jeweled design, and then she dropped it on the pier. "I don't need that tacky thing," she clarified, not even watching it fall.

"Why take it?"

She snorted, unabashed and unimpressed.

"Why do you think? We should chat."

"There's nothing to say."

"Fine by me." She came forward, moving fluidly, and then her hands were on my shoulders and her lips were on mine. It was both completely unexpected and completely right, exactly the thing that should have happened, and I only took a second or two to react before I kissed her back. I knew it was stupid, knew it was dangerous, but at that point my hands had found their way to her hips and lower, sliding around to the backs of her upper thighs, the curve of her bottom and the muscles in her back laid bare beneath the tight leather.

This time, she pushed me away, her lower body molded to mine, her arms shuddering but straight as she held herself away from me.

"This isn't a good idea," she said.

"I know," I said.

"I'm not going to stop stealing things."

"I'm not going to stop taking them back."

She laughed a little. She was lovely.

"This might be obvious, but I don't actually hate you."

I wanted to laugh, too. The mask wouldn't let me, and instead I shook my head.

"You… confuse me." _Oh. Good one, Bruce. Smooth._ She seemed to like it, though, her arms folding a bit so that her forearms rested against my chest.

"Good." And then she slipped out of my grasp completely, darting past me towards where the pier met land.

"Wait!" It was out before I knew I was going to do it. I really had to stop doing that; being laconic was one of my best defense mechanisms. She paused, though, looked back at me. "Nothing's changed," I said, part of me kicking myself with each word. She was too far away now for me to see any change in her eyes, but I thought her shoulders stiffened just a tad.

"Of course it hasn't," she replied. "You'll have to be quicker, though. Next time I won't wait."

And she was gone.

I didn't leave the pier for at least an hour that night. Crime was happening, in my city, the whole while… but just then, I couldn't bring myself to care.


	3. Backfire

**Hey, guys; it'd be sweet if more people reviewed, blah, blah, blah.**

_I've got a temper. I'd be the first to admit it. I'm a volatile creature, prone to high ups and low downs. Always have been. For this reason, I keep my apartment fairly rage-proofed. The breakables are all in cabinets with bulletproof glass, and I avoid those squat table lamps that are so perfect for hurling against walls. _

_That doesn't mean I can't be creatively destructive, if so inspired._

_

* * *

_

"And that!" The plate, cheap and ceramic, shattered with a satisfying crunch against the tile floor of my small kitchen. Nostrils flaring, I glared at the pieces. "Fuck you, Dark Knight!"

And then, after a few minutes, I got out the broom and swept up the broken plate. I felt a little better when I dropped onto my bed, spread-eagled in my underwear.

"Well, Selina," I said aloud, "you sure handled that. Situation _contained_."

It was my own fault, of course. I'd baited him, led him on a merry romp across the city rooftops, deliberately ended at a deserted spot with no other exits. And maybe I'd even made it a little romantic, a little special. The pier on the full moon. All that was missing was the violin.

I balled my hand into a fist and pummeled the mattress at my side. _You're a fool._

What had I expected? What had I _wanted_? Another taste of the thrill, another adrenaline pump. Stealing didn't do it anymore, so it was on to the next rush. It was in my nature; I couldn't fight it.

Except that was bullshit, and I knew it. Kissing Batman wasn't a little dose of some good, healthy crime. It wasn't skiing in the Alps, or skydiving in Monte Carlo. Kissing him the first time could be passed off as something along those lines, but my reaction had been dangerous and uncontrolled and certainly not expected. So kissing him a second time?

Another fist sank into the mattress.

_Nothing's changed._

I heard his voice, strong and clear as if he were in the room with me, and hated him. I'd said I didn't hate him, but obviously that was wrong. How dare he kiss me like that and then say nothing had changed? Never mind that we were sworn enemies, that I'd made a sport out of tricking him and teasing him and stealing things right out from under his nose.

I groaned.

"What are you _doing_?" I had no good answer for myself. And no good explanation for why I was feeling hurt right now, not annoyed or smug or vindictive, but actually _hurt_. He didn't have the right to make me feel like this.

There was a sinking sensation, deep in my stomach, and I thought that I would probably not be putting on the catsuit for a week or two. I was pretty sure that if I ran into _him_, I wouldn't be able to resist clawing him up. Which would make it pretty obvious that he'd gotten to me. Which was unacceptable.

Right. It had been a while since Selina Kyle had shown up at any of the high-class parties in town. If Catwoman couldn't play, my other side would. Maybe a wild night with some pretty, stupid thing would help me get over this ridiculous state of affairs.

* * *

Saturday night in Gotham is an exciting time. All the brightest stars of our grimy city come out to shine, exchanging pointless fluff about art or celebrities or the latest summer home in France. This Saturday was no exception, and as I stood by the window of Jacques Dupuis' downtown penthouse with a glass of champagne in hand, I remembered exactly why I tended to stay away.

"And that haircut, oh! It's just exquisite, Selina, darling; wherever did you get the idea?"

I smiled sweetly, taking a large sip of my champagne before replying.

"The Matrix."

"Well," Missy Dupuis said after a pause, with a flutter of her manicured hand, "that's marvelous." She smiled at me, I smiled at her, we smiled for a while longer, and then she moved on.

"Thank god," I muttered into my glass.

"Careful," someone said from my left. "If you drink it that fast, you won't have anything else to distract you." It was a man's voice, as smooth and charming as every other male voice in the room.

"Then I'll just have to hope someone brings me another," I replied easily, turning to face him. For a moment, my smile faltered. His eyes were so blue, a shade I'd seen only once before. Then, forcing myself back under control, I took in the clean-shaven face, strong and aristocratic; the fine suit; the ringless left hand holding a champagne glass to match my own. He looked familiar, which was odd; usually I remembered faces. Maybe it was the eyes, his stupid Batman-blue eyes. But he would do. He would definitely do.

"I would offer my services, but you might think I was trying to get you drunk." He didn't miss a beat, taking my unashamed inspection in stride. My smile grew wider, more real; he was good at this.

"Good heavens. The scandal!" I kept the sarcasm to a minimum, not wanting to put him off by my obvious disdain for everything around us, but I thought I saw those beautiful eyes narrow just a hair. Just as I was wondering why, the expression disappeared and he smirked.

"I hope you don't have a reputation to uphold," he drawled, purely wicked. I decided I had been mistaken, and downed the rest of my champagne.

"Only the bad one." At that, he laughed outright. It was surprisingly pleasant, warm and rich.

"Can I get you another glass?" the stranger asked, draining his own.

"You may," I replied primly.

"I'm Bruce, by the way." He held out a hand, and suddenly I knew why I recognized him. "Bruce Wayne."

"Aha," I said, taking the hand and shaking it once. He grimaced.

"Speaking of reputations…"

This earned a chuckle. I do love some self-deprecation.

"Selina," I told him, figuring that if he wanted to find my real name, he wouldn't have any trouble. Bruce Wayne knew everybody. There was no point in lying now.

"That's all I get?"

"If I can ignore your reputation, you can wonder about mine." I let go of his hand, taking a step back. "I'll be on the balcony when you get back with that drink." And, in true femme fatale form, I left him staring after me.

He played the game well, I had to admit. I was on the balcony for a good five minutes before he found me, two new glasses in his hands.

"Did you bring me something good?" I asked, turning to rest my elbows on the railing. His eyes dropped to my figure, and I smirked to myself. The dress, black and short and tight in all the right places, had been an indulgence that I was grateful for now. And I knew I looked good, my eyes lined in kohl, my short black hair gelled into a sleek, sexy cap, my lips dark and red.

"Try it and find out," Wayne said, handing me one of the glasses. It was green and icy; a margarita. My lips curved approvingly, and I sipped it. Bruce Wayne wouldn't drug a girl. Bruce Wayne didn't have to.

"Mm," I purred. "It's a little hot out tonight. This is perfect."

He grinned, leaning beside me, facing out at the cityscape.

"Is this the part where I say something cheesy about how you make it hot, baby?"

I laughed, surprised and pleased. Given the rumors about the guy, 'funny' was not something I would have expected from Gotham's prodigal son.

"Not if you want tonight to end well," I answered, taking another sip of my margarita. The alcohol was only just hitting me, a pleasant buzz.

"When you say 'well'…" He broke off, laughing, as I slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, buster."

"We live in hope," he said, with a light-hearted twist of the mouth, but the joke passed right through me. Those words. The way they

(– behind bars?)

fell off his tongue, eyes rolling just a little

(we live in hope)

as if to say, _Don't worry, I'm not serious._

"Hey," he said, and I realized I was staring. "You okay?"

"Yes," I said, looking away, frowning. _Stop it. You're here to _not_ think about him, remember?_ "Sorry about that."

"No worries," Wayne said easily. "The heat does that sometimes. The other day, I zoned out in the middle of a board meeting. Didn't come back until someone spilled coffee on my hand."

"Ouch," I said, chuckling a little, aware that it was half-hearted. I mentally shook myself off. This was ridiculous.

"Yeah, it wasn't the best way to end a daydream." He took a gulp of his own drink, and I remembered mine.

After a moment of silence, Wayne glanced at me.

"So," he said. "We could go back inside."

"We could," I agreed. There was something in his eyes, a new heat, and suddenly I wasn't so distracted.

"Or…" He trailed off, almost coyly. I looked down, biting back my smile.

"You want to get out of here, Bruce Wayne?"

"Lead the way."

We took his car, because it was way faster and way cooler than anything I'd ever driven. He drove fast, too, taking curves like we were on a racetrack. I almost didn't notice when we wound up by the shore, the wind whipping past my ears. When we finally stopped, the exhilaration stuck around. I turned to him, grinning, my heart racing.

"Where'd you learn to drive, Tex?" I asked, and for an instant there was another flash of that – that – whatever expression it was, and then he shook his head.

"With the best," he said smugly. "How about a walk on the beach?"

"I don't know if I could handle the romance."

"Well, if you faint, I promise I'll catch you."

There was something about this banter, the quick exchange, the way his eyes lit up with the challenge. Something… I shook it off, slinking my way out of the car to ensure maximum ogling. My heels, though, I left on the seat.

"So," I began as we strolled down the embankment to the sand, "from what I hear, you have a private jet."

"It does make those weekend jaunts to Paris easier," he said jokingly, not at all embarrassed. I liked that. If anything annoys me more than pompous rich people, it's rich people with false modesty. If you have money, own it. Don't flaunt it, but don't try to hide it, either.

"Must be nice." The sand was warm, but not painful; I picked my way down to the gentle waves lapping at the shore and waded in up to mid-calf. Wayne stayed dry, hands in the pockets of his very fine slacks, watching me. In the dark, his eyes glinted out of the shadows of his face.

"And you?" he asked, tilting his head. "Not just anyone gets an invite to Jacques' parties."

"I guess I'm not just anyone, then."

He shook his head, amused, and then I almost fell over.

_Oh, my god._ Some trick of the light. It was dark, hard to see; that would make anyone's features look – _Oh, my _god.

_We live in hope._

_Those eyes._

Bruce Wayne.

Bruce _fucking_ Wayne.

I staggered, actually, legitimately shocked, the knowledge hitting me like an eighteen-wheeler with absolutely no warning. Instantly, a strong forearm was around my waist, keeping me upright, blue eyes peering worriedly into my face. Familiar blue eyes. Batman-blue eyes.

"Shit," I said.

"Are you okay? I was kidding about the whole fainting thing, you know." He grinned a little, and it was charming, and sweet, and oh, _god_, Bruce Wayne was Batman.

"I, uh." I stopped. He was still holding me, and I realized that I was holding onto him, too. The waves splashed around my calves. I looked down, saw that his pants were wet to the ankle, had the absurd thought that his shoes were going to be ruined but that was okay because Bruce Wayne could afford a new pair of shoes.

"Selina," he said, and suddenly I couldn't understand how I hadn't seen it before. The voice, the voice was the same! Less gruff, maybe, less short, but the _same_. The mouth, those thin, clever lips; the strong jawline, the fucking _eyes_?

"I'm all right," I managed, my voice shaking a little. But that could be explained by lightheadness, as could the nearly falling. It was okay. I hadn't given myself away.

"Are you sure? Here, let's go back to the car. I can take you home."

"Um," I said, at my most eloquent. "Wait."

He stopped trying to steer me towards the dry sand, one arm still around my waist. I only had time to decide that it probably wasn't a good idea, and then I was pulling his head down and kissing him for the third time. _Oh, yeah,_ I thought, while I still could. _Definitely him._

Somehow we were on the beach now, me flat on my back, him braced over me, his dark hair coming out of its neat styling as his weight pinned me into the surf. My dress was also getting ruined, but all I had to do was sell a few good pieces to buy a new one. That wasn't important right now, anyway. What was important was the way his mouth felt on mine, the way his fingers tangled themselves into the short crop of my hair, the sound he made when I drew my nails down the back of his neck.

"I hope you're okay," he managed between kisses, his lips worshipping my cheeks, my jaw, my throat. "Because I'm going to do things to you on this beach that I would feel really bad about doing with an invalid."

_Fuck_. He was funny! Batman was funny! Batman made jokes while his hands made me tremble!

"I have to go," I said, the panic setting in like a pack of dogs. "I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I have to go." Even I could hear the raspiness in my voice, and even I couldn't help the way I arched against him when he drew away.

"Okay," he said, rolling off of me. He lay flat on his back for a moment, breathing hard. "That's okay. I'll take you home."

"No, I can get back from here." I pushed myself up, ignoring the sand in my hair and stuck to the backs of my legs. I had to get out of there, had to get away from him before I did something _really_ stupid, like have sex with him or tell him I admired his cape.

"What?" He rolled over and leapt nimbly to his feet. "Selina, I'm sorry if I went too fast for you, but I can't let you walk home from here. I'm not going to try anything."

"I know," I said quickly, brushing off my dress as I started walking towards the road. "It's not that; you've been a complete gentleman. It's not you, it's me. This is crazy, right? And you don't want to be involved with a crazy girl."

"It's not – " He was beside me, gesturing emphatically, and the absurdity of the situation made me laugh out loud.

"No, no, it's okay. I live close to here; I come here all the time. Trust me, I'm fine. It's been great. Seriously, a really, uh, a really interesting night."

"Well," he said, uncertainly, "I'm not going to force you into my car."

"That's good." I laughed, hoping it didn't sound as manic as it felt. "I might suspect you of ulterior motives."

"Selina, what's going on?"

I stopped, guilt setting in, guilt that I so rarely felt. I turned, faced him, the smile dropping from my face.

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. And then I waited for him to get in his car and leave, despite his many protests, before remembering that my shoes were still in his passenger seat.

_Awesome._


	4. Go Get The Girl

**I'd like to respond to an anonymous chap who allowed as to how maybe if I reviewed someone, they'd review me back. I have a confession to make, which is that I don't actually read a lot of fanfiction. This is because I'm too busy writing it (this username is one of several scattered across the web) and other works. I'm torn between stopping there and going on, but seeing as I will actually continue this story whether or not I get reviews (because I get as much pleasure from writing as I get from reading), I'll take the chance to be bitchy and point out that as far as I'm concerned, reviews aren't a bartering system. If you take the time to read something that someone took the time to write, and you enjoyed it or have something to say about it, go ahead and leave a review. It's not payment, and it's not a trade; it's just something nice for the writer to find in their email every once in a while.**

**Sermon over, onto fic. Sorry this is a shorter chapter, but I kind of had to end it here to stick with my pattern of switching off POV by chapter.  
**

She was avoiding me. That was the only possible answer. Four weeks. Four _weeks_, and nothing. No hint, no sign. No games. Just… nothing. If it were anyone else, I might have been worried. But I was sure nothing had happened to her. No one got close enough to touch Catwoman. No one but me.

Wait.

What was that?

Was that _jealousy_, hiding behind self-confidence? Because what if she was holed up somewhere, with some guy, too busy to come out and play? What else could keep her so occupied every night? Surely not sleep; she was as nocturnal as I was.

Annoyed, I pounded the punching bag. This was not acceptable. Distractions were dangerous, and this was getting to be more than just a distraction. It was getting to be an obsession. Even being Bruce Wayne wasn't working anymore; I'd thought it was, that Saturday, but then the girl – Selina – had sent me on my way with nothing but a first name and a pair of heels, and try as I might, no one remembered anything about Jacques' party except for their hangovers. I'd tried to get ahold of Missy Dupois; I'd seen her talking to the dark-haired woman before I made my move, but she was vacationing in France and wasn't taking calls. And what did it matter, anyway? Selina was just a girl, a pretty, intriguing one, but still just a social butterfly. She wasn't Catwoman, even if she had green eyes and a biting sarcasm to match.

"Sir," Alfred said from the stairwell. "If I may suggest some lunch?"

"Not hungry," I ground out, punctuating each word with a spinning kick.

"A drink of water, then? It's been two hours, Master Wayne."

"Not thirsty, either." Sweat fell into my eyes; I shook it off.

"Bruce," Alfred said. I stopped, panting, and stared at him. I can count on one hand the number of times he's called me Bruce.

"What?" I asked, when he didn't immediately speak.

"You need to stop this."

"Stop what? I'm training."

"No," he said, coming down the last two steps and into the gym. "What you're doing is called 'obsessing,' and it's getting rather alarming."

I scoffed, wiping a forearm across my forehead.

"I'm not obsessing over anyone."

Alfred raised a brow.

"I didn't say anything about a person, Master Wayne."

I groaned, turning back to give the bag a defeated smack.

"This is stupid, Alfred."

"I couldn't agree more."

"I mean, I don't even _know_ her."

"Love is blind, sir."

I whirled around.

"Love? Don't even joke about that, Alfred. I don't _love_ her. I don't even _like_ her."

He said nothing, and I caved.

"All right, I like her a little. But it's stupid. And I know I'm off my game, which means it's dangerous as well as stupid, but… if she would just stop being such a _coward_, maybe I could sort this out."

"Perhaps it's time to engage in a little immorality," Alfred said carefully, his expression smooth. I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"If Catwoman won't come to you," he began, white brows going up pointedly, "perhaps you should go to her."

"That sounds great. If I knew where she lived."

"Master Wayne," Alfred said, only a little bit patronizingly. "You have access to the greatest informational resources in this city. Not only that, but you have access to people who _do_ know where she lives."

It only took a second.

"Oh, no. Not a chance. I'm not going to them!"

"What will you do instead?" he asked blithely, backing towards the stairs, oh-so-polite. "Work yourself to death in your own basement?"

And that's the story of how I found myself actively seeking out Poison Ivy. I figured that she was a girl, so she was probably friends with Catwoman; they sometimes teamed up, anyway. Also, she seemed less likely to either speak in tongues or attack on sight than her colleagues, especially as I came bearing gifts. Ivy loves presents.

"Oh," she said, her red lips curving as I found my way into the jungle section of the arboretum where she was reclining. "What have we here?"

"A deal," I answered roughly. "You have something I want."

She sat up, her green dress clinging prettily to her not-insubstantial curves.

"Do I? And what might _you_ have that _I_ want?"

I held up the tickets with an internal sigh.

"First row seats, opening night, Little Shop of Horrors."

One red brow lifted, a light of approval dancing through the flecks of gold in her eyes.

"My goodness. That _is_ a treat." Ivy reached out a gloved hand, and I flicked the tickets back into my sleeve.

"First, I need information."

She pouted, but she would talk. I could tell. Ivy was as manipulative as an old-money diplomat, but she knew a good bargain when she saw one.

"What kind of information?" she asked, crossing her legs. I caught a glimpse of green-tinted thigh.

"I'm looking for Catwoman." Bluntness had worked before. "She has something of mine."

"Oh," Ivy said with a little chuckle. "That's interesting. The Bat and the Cat."

I narrowed my eyes, tempted to just hit her until she gave me what I needed.

"Either tell me where she lives, or I rip up these tickets. Last ones available."

"Fine," Ivy snapped, and for once I was grateful for her quick mood changes. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to thin out the competition just a bit. But she never hears who told you."

"Of course," I acquiesced, bringing out the tickets once again. "Some of us are honorable."

She snorted irreverently, reminding me strongly of another Gotham villainess.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." And she gave me an address, snatching up the tickets as soon as the last word was out of her mouth.


End file.
